


Size Matters

by arbitraryspace



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alien Sex, Comedy, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-26
Updated: 2010-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:29:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitraryspace/pseuds/arbitraryspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master is enamoured of his new Trakenite body, and he feels that the Doctor should be as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Size Matters

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a kinkememe prompt. Yes, I know that the title is groan-worthy. I figure that if I'm going to respond to an "alien cock" prompt, I might as well go balls out.

Occasionally the Doctor found himself in situations so absurd that he was forced to wonder where his life had gone so awry. Travelling the universe wasn't all rescuing civilizations and staring down untold evils from beyond the fourth dimension. Sometimes it was following a psychic distress signal to a besieged industrial planet, finding out that said planet was actually a peaceful Neo-Roman resort moon, getting caught outside in a storm generated by a weather machine straight out of a third-rate Bond movie, and, through an increasingly ludicrous series of events, being forced to take refuge in a local spa and warm up in their steam room while his wet clothes were sorted out; all of which the Doctor now strongly suspected had been arranged so that the Master could have himself a gloat.

Thankfully Tegan and Nyssa had been ushered off to the women's mud baths.

The Doctor couldn't leave the steam room as soon as he saw the Master lounging in it, because that would be highly offensive to the Neo-Roman hospitality gods, not to mention the heavily armed hotel corporation which claimed them as patron deities. And so they met like cats in an alleyway -- watchful without overtly watching, hackles up, acknowledging one another only through the negative space between them -- until the Doctor finally decided to address the elephant in the room.

Said elephant being the Master's lightly-veined, half-erect, twelve-inch cock, the likes of which the Doctor had never encountered outside of naughty Greek amphora art and vastly over-optimistic advertisements for penile enhancement products.

"I don't know what you're looking so smug about," the Doctor said, stuffing his hands in his pockets before they got any foolish ideas. Except he didn't have pockets right now, so he'd really just shoved his hands in the towel around his waist. Er. Moving on, then. "Your genetic legacy is hardly responsible for-- well, for any of your current physical endowments. It's like being proud of yourself for winning a fortune by stealing a thoroughbred and entering it in the Royal Ascot."

The Master seemed to consider this, before flagrantly adjusted himself _right in front of the Doctor_ , ignoring any and all precepts of gentlemanly steam room behaviour. The Doctor knew for a fact that there were rules against people like the Master being allowed to exist in a sane and rational universe. The trouble was that the Doctor was the one stuck with enforcing them, and he and rules didn't get along so very well.

"My dear Doctor," said the Master, who was far too collected for someone in a shameless nude sprawl, "you, of all people, should know quite well that a great deal of skill and talent is required to successfully cheat at any sort of animal-based gambling, be the contestants horses, dogs, or those charming Venusian flying squirrels."

"That may be so but--" The Doctor caught himself. "Oh, for goodness' sake, put a towel on." He did the Master the favour of stalking over to the basket of towels by the door, picking one up, and throwing it at his head for emphasis.

The Master caught the towel and held it between thumb and forefinger, as though he were inspecting a particularly unattractive specimen of roadkill.

"Really Doctor? Body shame? How very provincial of you. Positively Gallifreyan."

The Doctor flushed, both because it was getting hot in here, and because it was true. He didn't like beaches, let alone steam rooms. To him the idea of relaxing without a shirt on was an inherent contradiction in terms. Why should he have to be defensive about that? Spending his regenerations steeped in British reserve had only ever done him good.

But, as usual whenever the Master chose to squander vast amounts of his personal dignity, it was the Doctor who ended up feeling wretched and embarrassed about it. It was as though the Doctor had transformed into one of those insufferable persons who gawked at car wrecks. He didn't want to be the kind of man who snuck glances at another man's cock in a steam room, but there it was, red and impossible against the Master's thigh, looking as though a troop of maenads might appear at any moment to fling themselves onto it.

"I suspect that's because I _am_ still Gallifreyan. And I'll thank you not to point that thing at me!" the Doctor snapped.

"There's only so much room in this chamber, my dear. But in deference to your delicate sensibilities, I will comply." The Master shifted his hips to the left, putting the length of his Trakenite endowment into profile. "My thanks?"

"I'm sorry, what?" The Doctor asked, having briefly lost his train of thought.

"You said that you'd thank me," the Master elaborated. He was smirking and entirely pleased with himself, which was so predictable that it sent the Doctor spiralling safely back into exasperation. The Master absolutely could not be allowed to think that he was intimidating the Doctor with this lewd behaviour -- the basest and most gauche means by which male primates asserted dominance -- and it was becoming clear that if the Doctor wanted to walk out of this room with the upper hand, he was going to have to sink to the Master's level.

Well, fine. _Fine_. He could do exactly that. The Doctor was over seven centuries old and, more importantly, he had been acquainted with the Master for as long as either of them could remember. He knew a homoerotic situation when he was in one.

The Doctor stood, tightened his towel, and walked right up in front of the Master, before dropping to his knees on the marble floor. His adversary was too stunned to react when Doctor unceremoniously nudged his legs apart and began a manual inspection of his cock. The flesh was soft and springy beneath the Doctor's fingertips; inviting in the way that a proper Gallifreyan cock should be, but with contours capable of a blunt, hot, violent insistence that Gallifreyans were never intended to wield. The Doctor couldn't deny that it suited its new wearer very much.

"I suppose I did say that," the Doctor said.

The Master inhaled sharply, and the Doctor was pleased to see his abdomen tense. "Doctor," he said, with a sort of wonder that the Doctor resolved to immediately forget, "if I may interject, I thought the object was to _not_ point--"

"Are you objecting?" The Doctor interrupted, staying his movements.

The Master was silent for a long, tense moment, before he spread his arms to gesture blatantly down at his groin.

"Far be it for me not to be magnanimous to my enemies," he said, trying to sound imperious, but the Doctor saw his cock twitch (it was hard to miss) and felt the unsteadiness in his breath. He smiled into the side of the Master's thigh.

"Well, well. He can be taught."

"Doctor--"

"Shush."

The Doctor was forced to bat the Master's hands away not once, not twice, but three whole times, before the Master finally got the hint that if he wanted this to continue, he was going to have to sit back and take it. He eventually settled back with a grunt of assent and let the Doctor get to work.

Which wasn't as taxing as the Doctor might have imagined it to be, if he had imagined it being anything, which was not a fact that he admitted but, indeed, an allegation that he unreservedly denied. It didn't taste like dead constellations or smell like the graveyards of Traken. It was unmistakably the Master: crude, fascinating, and full to bursting with life. The Doctor had intended on giving a perfunctory hand-job -- to maintain the appropriate level of reserve -- but now that he was right up close to the organ, he couldn't help wanting to investigate. Simple jerking became cupping his balls became tracing the veins with the tip of his tongue became sucking the tip inside his mouth and seeing how deeply he could take it, trying to estimate girth from the strain and stretch of his lips.

The Doctor felt as though he could do this for hours. The Master was delightfully incoherent above him, moaning and straining and choking his name, and really, there was just _so much_ territory to cover if he wanted to do a thorough job. The Doctor had hardly begun to appreciate the heft and sensitivity of the Master's straining balls when the Master quickly pulled his cock out and came all over the Doctor's face.

The Doctor wiped the semen off of his lips, cheeks, and chin, and then cleaned his hands on his towel. His lips felt swollen and his throat was a bit raw. He'd forgotten how mussed one could feel, in the aftermath of a really masterful blow-job. He wasn't sure whether he liked it or not.

Nothing to be dwell on at this juncture, in any event. The Master was really a sight, right now -- pliable and sated from the tip of his beard to the soft roll of his love handles.

The Doctor looked down to see that the Master's cock had deflated, and all but two inches retracted back up into his pelvic cavity.

"Ha. Just as I thought," the Doctor said. "It puffs itself up when it's excited but otherwise it's quite compact. You'd never get around otherwise. Of course, you know all about shrinkage, don't you, Master?"

The Doctor gave the Master a consoling pat on the thigh, then stood and made for the door while the Master was still sputtering. So refreshing to see an expression on his face that wasn't crazed leering or murderous rage. The Doctor briefly regretted that he didn't go in for camera phones.

"If you'll excuse me, I've got to go destroy a rubbish weather machine." The Doctor nodded his goodbye and headed out to the locker room with a lop-sided swagger.

He'd take care of himself in the showers before he went to pick up his assistants. And maybe, once they were all off this moon, he'd dig up some of his second incarnation's personal items and put himself on a bit of a stretching regimen. The Master would escalate when he inevitably retaliated, and it was only sensible to be prepared to respond in kind.

Bigger might not always be better, but it could be rather fun, all in all.


End file.
